


Reverence

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Extended Scene, One Shot, Religious Symbolism, Season/Series 05, some Canon Dialogue, some canon divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-10 22:39:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11701320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: ( An extension of the scene between Joan and Vera in 05x12: Hellbent. )





	Reverence

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to explore that scene in Hellbent where Joan thanks Vera. I also wanted to dig a bit deeper and probe Joan prior to Vera entering the room. This was admittedly very painful to write. I'm quite find of religious motifs; the more I rewatch bits of season 5, the more I see of this sort of... self-portrayal when it comes to Joan being perceived as a messianic figure.

> ' Your face like a painting in your history mind, but you barely survived, and you're barely alive. Those rules of lost days that we buried in time can't lead the pain; I felt it inside. ' - _Be Free:_ Chelsea Wolfe, King Dude

Alone, Joan Ferguson sits on a rigid bed. It may as well be a casket with a white sheet draped over it. A shade of a fury lurks within the medical room. Fear heightens the senses. What was once untouchable is now touchable. She's not a monster, but a woman who's done plenty of fucked up things while cruising down her moral highway.

Restlessly, she stands. Joints creak. The strain in her muscles reminds her of the ever pressing ache in her body. There's no phoenix, just a frightened Lazarus – doomed to be wrapped not in burial cloth, but in dirt – standing in the wake of carnage. The strict, authoritarian woman who ruled these halls now experiences the slapping sting of vulnerability: the pain of a life nearly taken away again too soon.

Akin to a caged animal, she paces. Back and forth, back and forth. Ferguson, clad in the teal that constricts, mulls over her options; they're few and far in between.

Her chest tightens.

She stops walking and studies her warped reflection in the mirror. The Governor doesn't stare back, only Joan with vacant eyes.

_Memento mori._

This time, the uniform isn't in sight. Instead, she bears witness to her current image. Layers of skin have been scrapped away, left crimson from the rough abrasion of the rope. Her breath fogs the mirror.

How far the Morning Star has fallen.

Since when did everything become an attempt at sanctity?

Her thumb traces the wounded band around her neck. Under the touch, these lacerations throb, throb, throb.

Never has a brand appeared so ugly.

She resembles a shambling corpse with bloodshot eyes and blue veins mapped across her irritated throat.

She couldn't save Jianna.

She couldn't save herself.

_And now I've died with you._

Joan swallows. Chokes down the sob that threatens to come bubbling out. Her father would be proud of the parry, of the defense that destroys the offense. It's easier to kill softness than it is to live with a bleeding heart.

Relenting, she sits down again.

Catches a glimpse of the Lamb of God without the halo, without the crowns. With the grief, with the treacherous ruin.

There's no Mary Magdalene to weep and wash her feet; instead, there's a woman who walks by. A little mouse with shattered bones and self-esteem.

Come hither, the maestro in the brick den seems to say, crooking her scarred fingers. She taps on the glass. Vera Bennett, stripped of her title, hesitates. Relents.

"Vera."

The word carries a forlorn melody. An empty prayer. A hollowness.

As a wired ball of tension, Vera Bennett storms down the medical wing. Ignoring the beast of a burden in the room opposite of her is an impossible feat. Upon hearing the tapping of the glass, her mouth opens and closes. Guilt pounds inside her skull, her chest, her body alive with the nauseating feeling of it.

She feels guilty to be this powerless.

To let Joan Ferguson back into general.

Her badge opens the door, the gesture accompanied by an intrusive beep.

"I, ah. I, ah. I just wanted to say thank you."

It's difficult to spit it out. Petrified, she stutters. Again, she puts her heart on a silver platter for Vera to devour. Flashbacks to the ill-fated dinner skip like an old film reel: groggy, but ever present in her mind.

The lioness moves in a half-circle. The mouse has already removed the thorn in her paw though the pain remains. Their complexities weave together, as intricate the infectious overgrowth of ivy.

Far removed from her leather throne, she sits down.

A ball and chain are tethered by the way they infect one another.

Vera hides her hands that ball into fists. She hides them deep in the pockets of her trousers to hide. There, they quiver and they shake. The hem of her blazer lifts from the friction of her wrists.

The fault lies within feeling too much.

All the layers of hurt finally come to light.

"We've got a knack for fucked up history, Joan."

Venom oozes from her tone without the malice. It comes out tired, in the way she says it, and admits the truth. These days, there are more lines around her eyes, riddling her forehead.

So this is what it means to ruin yourself.

Joan clutches the edge of the bed. She imagines all the times that Vera must have peered underneath her mattress as reassurance – to banished the monster that terrified her nighttime thoughts.

Yes, the terrible things catch up to you.

"Why did you do it?"

Out of the blue, she asks and cuts through the silence between them. In an attempt to peel back the layers of this molded version of Vera Bennett, she inquisitively tilts her head.

"Whatever happens, your humanity always wins out. Is that it?"

There's a gleam to her granite eyes. Joan Ferguson feels _exposed_. So weak and powerless. Disheveled, her messy ponytail speaks of the chaos that infects her clinical life. The straight and narrow path curves.

So this is what it means to unravel.

"I fought for you. I presented my concern to Director Channing. He didn't listen."

The veins in Vera's neck stands out, her throat taut. As though it's her day in court, she tries to present her case. There is nothing more that she desires than to see Joan safe rather than thrown to the wolves again. It makes her anxious. It makes her nauseous. It makes her feel old things she thought she healed from.

She's not a marionette meant to dangle by a thread. She's already seen the puppeteer become the puppet. Her jaw locks.

"If I go to general, your good deed will be in vain."

Nimble fingers drum the flat surface beneath her. Joan taps out a melody, a rhythm, in order to remain composed. The sonata carries her through this revelation.

Vera stands still.

"There's nothing I can do," she confesses, sounding worn. Numb.

A part of her wishes that – despite every little fucked up thing they've done – she could console Joan in earnest. Wrap her arms around her to issue an apology for her Socrates. Hidden by her pockets, her hands twitch. She's out of tears, but not out of ever present concert.

At this point, they're holding on for the sake of holding on.

Vera turns. Her nails dig into the palm of her hand, forming little crescent moons in the wake of her frustration.

The conversation continues.

Indiscretion cuts beneath the surface. She wears rotten cherry red as her necklace. Vera's eyes meet the stain. Out of habit, she chews her lip.

_God, what if I hadn't been there in time?_

She tries not to dwell on the outcome.

"It's not my decision. I am powerless now. You did too good a job on me."

Joan's dismantled the ragdoll woman in front of her. Perhaps too effectively. For a change, Joan turns her head, her stare enamored by the rows of uniform tile. This isn't what she wanted. This hadn't been her prophecy for the future: for the power that would have balanced the lawful scales at Wentworth.

Their pride and their demons choke them out.

Bennett's eyes sting. She tries to hold her head high, to stand tall, as Joan had once done wearing those same crowns soon to be taken from her.

She has the willpower to walk away and she does, she does, leaving an empty God placed atop her pedestal.  
  


 


End file.
